It's Not An 'S'
by Muffliato
Summary: Before the spaceships, fiery reporter, Kryptonian plots and nationalistic hero, there were two kids who longed to fly. For Clark Kent and Lana Lang had always known what hope meant, and they saw it in every bird and plane above the wilted grass fields. — Canon and Lana (there wasn't a character button for her) with MAJOR SPOILERS FOR 'MAN OF STEEL'


******A/N:** Just saw 'Man of Steel'! Which was awesome, especially with the winks to the original material. I…might have freaked out in the theater when they mentioned 'Lana Lang' on the school bus. For those who don't know, Lana is usually named as a childhood friend and ex-girlfriend of Clark Kent. So this is an attempt from a mild-DC fangirl to further bridge 'MoS' canon with the comic mythos, even though my knowledge of the latter is very iffy. _Please_ let me know of any corrections I can make!

Technically canon for 'MoS', though a previous ship (before Lois shows up) is added. Also, though I'm American I live in Britain and use a UK spell checker. So if I accidentally put in a Britishism rather than an Americanism, please let me know!

**General Disclaimer:** If I created the 'man behind the cape', I certainly wouldn't have gone for spandex. Again.

* * *

_"__What if a child dreamed of becoming something other than what society had intended? What if a child aspired to something greater?" Jor-El, 'Man of Steel'._

* * *

Page one of the story was not endlessly long sunsets, where waves of grass skittered tall as the sky, when he flipped back against the wind and she laughed. That was just testing the boundaries, pushing his powers to see what needed to stay hidden. But even beginning there would be skipping so much: it would be like mistaking a plane for a bird.

The complications, the wonder, his hope had begun so long before the tales whispered in his ears. Because once upon a time there was a mother. A mom who was sick with fears for her little boy. To this day, he knew she was frightened that one night in any billionths of moments, his body would forget it needed air. That his lungs would struggle like they had when he was a baby. That whatever was wrong with him ("Was wonderful," she'd always insist. He'd nod without knowing if he believed) made him at once so strong and so weak. For he saw everything, his head filled up with the world's perceptions as his eyes darkened with too many feelings, and sometimes even breathing in and going on was the gravest of challenges.

For years he had so wanted to be a big boy…but instead found himself clinging to his mother, tears rolling down his cheeks and heart clamouring in his chest. With his parents' hushed, fearful discussions in the kitchen (he always heard from his bed, he couldn't help it), another solution was tried. But not more doctors, failed pills, or silly adult advice. Instead, his mom brought home a flimsy paperback with ripped corners. Pulling a patch-worked quilt out of the wardrobe, she sat her little boy down and adjusted their crossed legs so that they matched the pictures. Shooing away the puppy, she told her six-year-old to close his eyes, feel his even breath whirl about him, and concentrate on her voice. To pretend it was an island out in the ocean. To try his hardest to make the too big world small.

"It's called meditation." She said calmly, the whispering summer heat burgeoning and lightly swirling around the room. Her son tilted his head, smelled the scent of apple in the air, didn't sense anything else, and smiled. _It was just them_, and though the world returned after a moment it was more than enough. His parents couldn't stop beaming the rest of the afternoon, and he was so happy that he raced with his dog amidst the fields filled with colors, shapes, and tootootoo much of everything. But for the first time in his life, delirious hope rang out.

They did this everyday, then biweekly, then every week. A bubble of tranquility, his own fortress of solitude where the entire world was made small. Where his mom or dad would sit with him, their breathing steady, small barks drifting in and out, and he'd know that everything that mattered was close enough for him to touch. His senses didn't dull, _they focussed_. He was in charge: he could shut everything away or bring it back, and it felt so perfect.

But as his mom didn't worry as much (though into his teens she'd lightly touch his wrist for a steady pulse, a strong drumbeat; she would smile), his dad's frowns grew. His hugs became tighter and lasted longer. This began not with any great show of strength—there was plenty of that, with even more accompanying excuses—but over homework. For school was easy for him. Not that he was a genius, but by making the world small enough for him to fit concentrating and memorising details came naturally. His parents were ecstatic at first, but after yet another meeting with the teacher over bullying their proud grins became strained. He didn't fit in with the older kids, and though he was similarly outcasted by those his own age with so many fights (struggling with explanations of why he was never hurt and why the bullies broke their arms trying) the only solution was clear. He was put back in his 'proper' grade, his dad worked longer hours to buy additional books to help, and he worked hard in a different way to keep his parents oblivious to the worsening situation.

But he couldn't hide being sent to the principal's office, even while he insisting the entire way that he'd only punched the bully rather than slamming him so hard that the locker had cracked around him. His parents had agreed, said it was impossible, argued that whatever their son had done it had been self-defence, and his dad almost came to blows himself against the other boy's father. But that night before bedtime he'd been sat down, patted on the knee, and told that maybe it'd be best if he hid his strangeness. That he was blessed, yes, and that they loved him just as he was, but people were idiots. They would treat him differently if they knew. It would be so difficult, so challenging. That this was the only way they could protect him.

He'd understood (ignoring the sinking in his stomach, the barrage of senses circulating the edge of his mind), gave a false smile, and said he would. Still, he didn't miss his parents' concerned glances when he didn't go out for sports, when he got a C, when he didn't bring home friends, when they knew that he kept quiet even when he knew the right answer or had a protest. Instead he meditated, helped out where he could, played a bit with a similarly alone neighbor when the older Langs were at the bar, and thanked his lucky stars that his skin didn't bruise and his bones never broke.

Then the school bus went over the bridge.

Afterwards, the hesitance in his dad's voice was impossible to miss. With the answer, he felt tears prickle eyes at a simple realisation: his father loved him enough to put his happiness over what happened to the other students. Which was wrong, and he knew he would always save others if he could, but still. It helped to know someone cared that much.

Especially when he saw the ship. Though, he wasn't surprised at the revelation. Horror and grief? Of course. But after so many years, though he was just a child, he wasn't the least bit shocked at proof that he was _this_ abnormal. Inhuman. An alien. A monster. Alone.

At dinner that night, his mum froze when he called her 'Martha'. Their stunned expressions was enough for him to sink in guilt, yelp out an apology, and hurtle to his bedroom as fast as the wind without another word. His dad (not Jonathan; he wouldn't make that mistake twice) knocked soon after, not with an offer of dessert but for his favorite: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He didn't answer. The footsteps slowly walked away.

It was curiosity that drew him back to the accident a few days later (not having properly talked to his mom or dad, though both had distinctly red eyes). Police tape was up everywhere, concrete was shattered to pieces, a rabbit bounded out of the half-submerged bus, and—when jumping in surprise behind a tree—he found a girl.

Lana Lang. His neighbor, who he was convinced would think like all the rest that he was a freak. She moved out as the rabbit rushed by. Hesitating for a moment, she launched herself at the startled boy with a tight hug.

"Thank you thank you thank you." She murmured into his ear, gratefully with a tinge of hysteria. He could do nothing more but gape and automatically support her weight. Afterwards, when she asked how, he could only shrug. Both swung at twilight in the rusted play park as they'd used to, arms slung around the links, heads turned towards the stars.

"Dunno. I've always been able to do weird stuff…mom and dad told me not to mention it." Which was when he realised he _had_ just mentioned it. He jerked towards Lana in shock, but she was calmly nodding, unperturbed by his strangeness.

She was silent for another minute, pushing herself further off the ground with every swing. He missed a mischievous smirk finally trailing onto her lips. "I bet you're a wizard."

"A—a what?" He said, startled at the unexpected reaction.

"Magical." Lana stated matter-of-factly; the clear expert on this topic between the two, considering how often she had her nose in a fairy tale. She waved a hand around like a wand, swirling it through the air. "Betcha anything you are! Super strength, super brave, super intellect—"

"I'm not super brave or smart!" He protested, surprised she was taking it like this. "I'm, I'm just good at remembering stuff."

"Uh huh." She nodded, this merely supporting her theory. Her legs kicked off of the ground with another mighty _swoop_. "Super humbleness too! Do you have a broom? Are you hiding a black cat?"

"You, err, know I have a dog…"

"Or maybe you aren't Merlin!" Lana, excited, drove her legs down, abruptly stopping the swing with a billowing cloud of dust. "A Disney Prince, a proper 'Magic Boy'. Maybe princess though, more canon. Can you talk to animals?"

"I—" he followed suit in halting, all whilst staring at her (his friend; a proper one who knew _him_ and didn't care) in mortification, "—I'm not a girl!"

"Yeah." She said slowly, as though to an imbecile. "But can you talk to animals?"

"No!"

"Can you fly?"

"N—probably not." He reluctantly admitted, torn between the truth of uncertainty and wanting to run away from this girl with a glint in her eyes.

"Good then. I would've Indian hexed you if you hadn't told me about that. So! Shouldn't you find out?" Lana clicked knowingly, hoping off of the swing. "Oh, it'll be like a story. You save a princess, she helps you unlock your powers, then everyone lives happily ever after!"

"…you're the damsel in distress, right?" He said hedgingly, worried she was still going on about the 'he's-a-she' thing.

"Don't call me a pussy!" Lana frowned, and before the boy could protest he found himself being helplessly pulled into the fields of endless grass. He'd insist later it was his 'chivalry' that allowed this. But really, he was struggling to hold back a beam as his friend ushered him into the unknown. "God, boys are so stupid."

* * *

His parents were relieved when the silence was broken, and thrilled that his days were now spent rushing around with not only his dog but a playmate. His dad did send him a speculative look as though he knew exactly what they were doing and what powers they were exploring, but he didn't stop them.

Though in truth, Lana and he mainly spent their time as they had before: climbing up picket fences, racing away from angry farmers, pulling pranks on fellow students, and throwing favorite bits of candy back and forth as they waltzed and teetered down slippery stones in Smallville's main river. The Kents chuckled at their antics; the Langs didn't recall their daughter enough to care one way or another.

It was only when the two children were bored that they went out to the fields, where the tall wheat grass stretched higher and wider than most could even imagine. It was only when they were done with their latest adventure that they returned to finding out exactly _what_ he could do.

As it turned out, he couldn't fly. But he could float, drift himself and a giggling or barking guest over and up onto the blanketing fields. Much to his disappointment, his dog's barks remained intelligible. But he found he was an expert at skipping stones (and at destroying stones in spectacular ways, as Lana so quipped after a particularly explosive episode). He could also make fire, but after the first time of almost setting a barn ablaze they skittered well away from this power.

One rainy afternoon hiding in the barn, he even showed her the strange emblem on an impossible metal. She hesitated before smoothing it over her fingers. Soon she handed it back gently, eyes glancing at the ship with an understanding gaze. She kissed his nose when she caught his worry. "You're my Magic Boy, silly. Nothing can change that. You're so moronic for a genius!"

So, they tended to simply soar through the hours, days, and passing years. All the while they were careful, keeping to deserted areas, darkened times, and only even rarely did this at all. There were a few spottings (a wide-eyed Pete Ross who never said a word), and some close calls with him flying her out the window when her father came home with one too many drinks. But for both of them, it was never about the powers; blessing or curse. Why should they worry about it when there was so much to explore? From ghost stories told on autumn nights, tugging Pete into their rag-tag group for Mrs. Kent's hot cocoa before battling snow forts, nicking juicily ripe apples from orchards, swinging down main street with ice creams trailing down their cheeks on hot summery days, and a friendship bigger than the entire wide world to embrace.

One day, an ordinary day when boredom hung over the town in heated waves, he hugged Lana and lifted them up into the soft leaves of a tree (scaring a poor squirrel in the process). She nestled against him, completely at ease, and exhaled slowly. He relaxed, breathing in her scent of cinnamon. There they lay amongst the branches, two teens, and in that moment he felt that nothing could be better than this. Who needed meditation when Lana's gaze was so peaceful? Where she could care less if he was wizard, alien, monster or human? Where he felt like he could lay here forever with—

—she tasted like apple pie.

That was his first thought, and for once he was slow to catch up to reality. She pulled away, a pained look crossing her expression. Words falling with hurt, she stammered, hands starting to lift her body away from his. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. It—"

He interrupted her apology by embracing her back, pressing his lips to hers as their tension ebbed away.

* * *

He didn't save his dad's life.

In the hushed evening after, his mother huddled him close and repeated over and over again (in a stuttered, tear-filled voice) how proud he was of him, how it was not his fault, that he saved the precious girl, and that his dad was a hero who longed to keep his family safe. That it would be okay.

Though he never said it, none of this helped, and he was relieved to rush away when his mom drifted off to sleep. Still, he first carefully covered her with the old guilt and told the dog to stay, hoping against all hope that he could be understood. Without knowing where he was running (faster than the wind, faster than a speeding bullet, faster than the blasted tornado) he found himself in the old fields, the rosy red sunset meeting the rustling strands of wheat. He noted that he now towered over the grass, but didn't care.

The next second he sensed someone walking towards him, and within moments he was clenched against Lana, tears flowing. She rested her cheek into his ruffled hair, gripped him tightly, and didn't say anything while he took in desperate gulps of air. It was exactly what he needed.

They met there every evening (after her afternoons were spent racing away from parents to the library, while he played along with his mother's false smile and determination to live). There was no soaring, no powers, no childish drifting around their small world to explore the nooks and crannies. Instead, they lay in the field—hands clenched, gazing at the flowering stars, breathing in line with each other.

* * *

There was no messy break-up. They were together up until graduation (so many secrets kept to two). Lana was off to college on scholarship, and he was still lost. So they kissed, smiled sadly, and didn't say good bye. There was only a whisper in his ear, "Fly to me whenever you can, Magic Boy. I'll leave a window open."

Because she'd always loved stories, adored creating a reality to escape her own small world, and he knew that she'd find the wider unknown somewhere out there. He also knew she was convinced he was the hero of this tale, but he wasn't so sure of that. Still, he decided he might as well find a place of his own. So he hugged his mom, slung a duffle-bag over his shoulder, and went off. He wasn't sure where. Didn't much care, either. He supposed that was the point.

* * *

While he'd never go so far as to say he 'did it all', he made a valiant attempt at it. Any odd job he could get, he was there. Working with his hands was relaxing, as most of it fell away to rhythmic inhaling and exhaling, one breath after another, making the world small enough to embrace.

From construction, assembly lines, train-track repairs, to a brief stint, no job lasted long. Calls to Lana about her classes, his life, her internship, his travels, her finding her own words, his promise to visit her soon. Calls home to quiet suggestions from his mom about college or the farm. Goes anywhere else than home, and puts off Lana. Takes any other bus. A drop into IHOP to chat with Pete even led to a friend of a friend's job as a cook. After he let his anger take control (while realising that, maybe, he and Lana hadn't pushed him enough), he disappeared again. It was in off-shore fishing and another influx of his 'savings-people-thing' where he heard the whisper about a spacecraft.

* * *

Flying was as amazing as they'd dreamed it could be. Soaring through the icebergs, forests, then saharas at rocketing speeds, faster and faster until with each little sway he imagined leaping over the tallest of buildings in single bounds. A simple bound and it was _all so easy_. It became obvious that Lana and he had barely scratched the surface (which was unsurprising; both cared so much more about the truly important things), but this? This was utterly natural! The wind rushing by in sweeps of grand breaths, lands and oceans cascading in blurred shapes of colors below: so, so beautiful.

He finally realised how big the world truly was. Which was daunting and terrifying, but he circled around it at greater heights and even more dizzying speeds, struggling to leave his complicated thoughts—of Jor-El, Krypton, a race destroying itself, so many worlds lifted onto his shoulders, a reporter stuck in his mind, his true parents who taught him and loved him and _were always there_ (even when he always failed), his humanity or otherwise and that he belonged nowhere—far behind.

* * *

She had, indeed, left her window open. He smiled (a tinge of sadness there still) and squeezed into her small Metropolitan apartment. The suit was in a bag over his shoulder, and as he plopped to the ground he couldn't help but check he hadn't left that or his shadow behind.

Thoughts still streaming of Jor-El (not his dad, not yet. Maybe ever) and the whirl-wind, reckless flight, his breath caught as he looked around her bedroom. It was dark, but he had no trouble seeing the peeling wallpaper, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the teetering stacks of books, the clothes draped across the floor, the shaking figure on the bed reaching for a volume of Shakespeare's complete works and—

He dodged it easily, bringing his hands up in a defensive, 'I'm-not-an-actual-burglar!' wave. "Lana! It's me! I, I, damn. Sorry for sneaking in!"

The light flickered on as he was met with the incredulous stare of his old friend, blanket falling down around her fluffy nightgown. "_Clark?_ You—you—"

"I know, sorry!" He quickly exclaimed, rubbing his hair embarrassingly. "It's been an insane day and I, well, the entire thing was spontaneous and—"

"FIVE YEARS!" Lana shrieked, flinging another book that he easily caught. "Five freaking years without a visit and _months_ without a call? You stupid idiot!"

"Never get tired of the old insults, do you." He sighed before doing a double-take at the text in his hand. "Wait, you have _two_ copies of Shakespeare?"

"_Bursting in and scaring me half to death!_" She leapt out of bed and flung herself at him with a big embrace, knocking the book to the ground. "Moron. What the hell've you been doing with yourself?!"

"Err, this and that." He awkwardly patted her back, at a loss for the situation.

"_Which isn't an answer!_" His furious friend stepped back and, finally properly seeing her, he noticed she looked almost the same but happier with less shadowed bruises around her eyes. "Unlike yourself, I'm not oblivious. What brought you here?"

"Can't I visit an old friend?" Her pointed look told him she saw through his answer. He sighed and tried again. "I—Lana, I just found out where I come from. About my biological father…not even that, about my entire species." He gave a slightly hysteric laugh as his companion's jaw dropped. "Sounds unbelievable, I know. It was all in a spaceship up in the Arctic!"

"That's," Lana said slowly, staring at him with blinking eyes, "that's, well, fantastic! I'm so happy for you. Still royally pissed off, but that's amazing news and…you aren't pulling my leg, right?"

"No, no," he chuckled as she moved them to the small dining room lined with dusty shelves, both sitting with slightly numb demeanours. He dropped the bag to the ground, "just don't tell anyone at the _Planet_, hmm? I'd prefer not to be dissected by the government."

"You idiot." Lana sighed, staring at him fondly. He felt an odd laugh swirling up inside of him, but pressed this down. "Like anyone would listen to a junior journalist. Besides, I'm not quite annoyed enough at you to do that. But try leaving me in the lurch for another five years and we'll see, hmm?"

"I really am sorry." He gave her a boyish smile. She didn't relent and merely raised an eyebrow.

"Uh huh." Suddenly her serious demeanour broke into a slightly desperate laugh as she hugged him again. "Really though, don't you _dare_ dream of doing that again! Tell me everything. What have you been up to? How did you find this ship?"

"Just odd jobs, like I said." He happily returned the hug before releasing her. "I heard a whisper about this 'mysterious object' and, you know me, couldn't help but investigate. So I went up north, got a job, took a look around, accidentally started an alien ship, met a holograph of my biological father, and had a history lesson about my people."

She let out a deep breath. "Only—only you, Magic Boy. But this…this is all good. Isn't it?"

"It's good." He nodded with a smile, understanding. "It's very good."

"Oh shoot," Lana gave a start in realisation, "tell me you didn't steal this 'spaceship'? Lord, I can't believe I'm having this conversation."

"…define 'stealing'."

"_Clark!_" She groaned. "There's no way that won't be noticed! You did at least give a false name, right? Did anyone see you?"

"Yes to the fake name," he hesitated, "but not exactly yes to the 'no one saw me' bit. There was a reporter—"

"_CLARK!_" Lana looked furious at his stupidity.

"—I didn't have a choice!" He hurriedly continued. "She was going to die if I didn't heal her!"

Lana, though not at all surprised at his heroics, sighed at his all-too predictable action. "Do you at least know who this woman is?"

He gave a small smile as she calmed down. "A reporter from the _Planet_, actually. I got a quick look at her credentials when I was pretending to be with the government group there. She has red hair, is almost as stubborn as you, and fought even when injured!" He briefly chuckled, missing the knowing and slightly saddened look Lana sent him.

"Any name to go with this description?" She said casually, fingers nervously threading the cuff of her sleeve. She'd been best friends with this man for long enough to know the look on his face.

He, oblivious as ever, frowned momentarily before brightening. "L. Lane. At least, according to the papers."

Lana bit her lip before smiling. "Lois. Lois Lane, then. She's a top reporter at the paper and the entire description matches hers. Did you—did you talk to her much?"

"No." He finally frowned in noticing her forced expression. "Lana, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing." She gave a more true smile, though ringed with sadness. "Just silliness. Have you contacted her?"

"No, I haven—"

"Do it." Lana said immediately, nodding to herself even through Clark's bewilderment. "Lane's the sort of reporter who'll follow a lead until it kills her. So find her. Talk to her. I know you want to."

He stared at her, eyes narrowing in suspicious confusion. "Something's wrong."

"Talk to her." She repeated, getting up from the table after giving him another hug. "You silly Magic Boy. I see how you look when you talk about her. It's fine, don't worry, just find her. Go to Smallville as well; I know you've also been ignoring your mom."

Lana sent him a last genuine smile, but as she started to walk away a gentle touch on her wrist turned her back. She looked up at him—her childhood friend, her ex-lover, her hero—and recognised the brightened, understanding look in his eyes.

"That can wait." He said softly, leaving his bag as he guided them back to the window. "I came for a different reason. How would you like to fly?"

* * *

Metropolis, as it would soon be wont to do, went up in smoke and carnage.

The world watched as a hero beat back the aliens and proved he was more human than any of them. The Earth looked on and mourned the deaths, watched the flowering stars with new trepidation, and knew that nothing would ever be the same.

Not many noticed a woman fall from the sky (a habit she was beginning to cement). A man caught her, hugged her close, and in that moment never ever wanted to let go. She wasn't his first 'damsel-not-really-in-distress'. But as he gazed at her brave eyes and bundled, rosy hair, he realised that—for someone who could perceive everything—he had been a bit blind. Because, no, she wasn't fields of tall wheat, summery days nestled by a river, or the courage of two kids up against the world.

Lois Lane was someone altogether different, and maybe (just maybe) Clark Kent had actually been the one who had fallen.

They kissed while the war's remnants collected around them, neither caring that he had minutes before proven to be stronger than any number of locomotives. They wrote page one of their story right as the Earth gained its own guardian angel. A ghost who never quite fit in, who longed to fly to the stars, who had his salvation in a few voices—islands to make the all-too big world small. To make it human.

* * *

Lana glanced up as a shadow draped over her computer. Twirling in her chair, she frowned to hide her delight. "You do know the glasses aren't fooling anyone."

"You'd be surprised." Clark Kent grinned at her, at her lack of injuries, at knowing that his friend was here to stay. "Humans can be rather oblivious."

"Especially those of the male variety." She quipped back without hesitation, reaching behind her to automatically save her word document.

"Especially us." He agreed without argument, before his smile dimmed. "Lana, I really am so, so sorry for—"

"For saving my life?" She retorted with an unimpressed arch of her brow. "For giving me an escape from my family? For being my inspiration? For saving the world? For convincing Perry to give me a promotion—oh, don't even pretend you didn't do that!"

He hesitated, taking a glance around the new office and the workers who were paying them no mind. "I hurt you."

Lana groaned, batting his arm away in frustration. "You were my fairy tale, don't get the two mixed up. Guess what 'super-boy', we've grown up! It really is fine. I have important reporter-y stuff to do, you've swindled your way into a job here, and from the spot of red hair around the corner I think you have someone waiting for you. Don't make those big puppy dog eyes at me! You're still my best friend even though you're a complete numbskull; those tricks don't work. They never have. Now shoo!"

"But I—"

"_Shoo!_" She waved her hand with a roll of her eyes. "Good lord. Magic Boy, how dense can you be? Also, who came up with that ridiculous nickname? _Superman_? So egoistical. Worse than Luther plastering his moniker everywhere."

"Hey!" Clark yelped in actual offence, rubbing his unfamiliar glasses. "I doubt I—" he remembered that they were hardly alone, "—_he_ came up with that!"

"_He_ came up with the spandex." Lana retorted back with a mischievous smirk, a bit amused at his paranoia. "If you ask me, _someone's_ trying to prove something."

"_Hey!_"

"Not to mention the clear Jesus figure, or the color scheme that hits you over the head." She continued happily, enjoying the blush decorating her friend's cheeks. "Patriotic much? It'd only be more obvious if he'd covered himself with stars and stripes!"

"Oh come on." Clark muttered, fighting against his flush as a few reporters gave them second looks. "Like anyone would do that."

* * *

**A/N:** I couldn't help but end with poking fun at all the silliness! But I am sorry for basically making Lana my own OC; just figure that I'm rather clueless about the comics. Still, I hope you enjoyed the story, and any suggestions on how to make it more canon would be greatly appreciated!


End file.
